


Damage Control

by every_last_word_always



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bad Writing, Canon Divergence, Character Death, I'm Bad At Tagging, Near Death Experiences, Original Character - Freeform, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-03 15:29:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15821730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/every_last_word_always/pseuds/every_last_word_always
Summary: Let's see... there's a whole lot of death... and some attempts at plot... bad writing holds it all  together. It's after Infinity War.The battles are hard enough that they cost the lives of many of those who were never supposed to die. The mental battles are even harder and they have even more casualties.





	Damage Control

 

[Thor Ragnarok time]

Asgard. A beautiful place when every square inch of the city is sprinkled in the dappled light of the sun reflecting off of the golden castle at its center. A beautiful place through its days of debonair young princes and the stabbing turmoil between them. A beautiful place even when ice of frost giant rule chilled the throne, hope keeping the gold from dulling.  It is not a beautiful place now.

Debris lines the streets, pieces of citizens' houses and the weapons and littered bodies of their attackers. Trees, with their vibrant silver and green leaves were ashen in color, fire burning steadily on their limbs. The fire cast a look of malice in the shadows of its light, no hint of rebellion or hope in its flame. The once regal courtyard, a place of collectiveness, held this air even when its floor was the resting ground of Asgard's military: they had died together. The real thing though that robbed Asgard of its beauty was not the sudden appearance of destruction but rather the disappearance of its people. It feels like the end of an era.

 

"Mama? I can't hear you."

Morgan clutches her mother's hand in both of hers, letting go would give her less control.

" _Morgan, I have to-_ "

A deep throated scream cuts through the air, rising in a pitch far about its natural range.

"Mama, where are you going?"

Morgan's mother wrenches her hand away, plunging into the writhing crowd of people. Plunging into danger.

"Mama! Wait. They don't need you!"

Morgan follows after her mother, desperately grasping at any control she can get, telling herself that as long as it’s in her power to do so, she will protect those she cares about.  

"MAMA! Please! Wait, WAIT!"

Morgan's mother was easy to follow; the crowd practically parted to let her through, hoping that she, being a god, would be able to save them.

"MAMA!"

The ratio of friend to foe became one to one as Morgan forced her way through the raging skirmishes, narrowly avoiding a few blades herself.

“MAMA, please. Stop!”

Morgan’s mother stops and slides a curved blade out of a slitted case of her back, fighting machinely around her daughter.  

“ _Morgan. Listen to me._ ”

More and more undead warriors seem to appear out of nowhere, but Asgard’s forces are quickly being depleted. The fight wouldn’t go on for much longer.

“ _Morgan Lux. You need to go to the rescue ship.”_

Morgan’s mother fights with the intent to kill though the enemy presses ever closer, isolating Morgan and her mother from the rest of the group.

“ _No… stay behind me. I’ll forge a path, okay. And then you have to run.”_

A light began to grow behind Morgan’s mother’s eyes, the soldiers around her continue to attack, not knowing that they were now facing the full might of the sun goddess, Sol.

“ _Morgan… run, NOW.”_

Sol’s blade extends forward like a bullet of concentrated sunlight, effectively eliminating half of the surrounding circle of soldiers.

Morgan’s feet scramble underneath her as she darts forward, her legs pumping so fast that in the glow of the bifrost it seems she leaves a purple glow in her wake. She slams into a collection of people, forcing ragged breaths in through her teeth and out in hot shots through her nose. Adrenaline runs in blazing rivers through her blood, keeping her cheeks from turning rosy in the chilly air, keeping her from emotional collapse.

Desperate to do good by her mother, Morgan wriggles into gaps between fully grown people, gradually slowing, her breath ripping ragged holes in her shoulders as she sucked in breath after breath of sweet, metal- tasting air. She continues forward, raking her vision through the crowd of people for someone she knows that she can latch on to. Her pulse fills her head, an incessant beat throbbing above her ears, she becomes increasingly lost among the throngs of people that she knew yet did not know.

The wife of the warrior who had helped her mother give birth in a house made of stone and furnished with gold.

The grandson of the forgiving professor who operated sheerly on a system of sun and moon, saying time was only for the physical.

The mother of her best friend, a sixteen year old who had taken advantage of her before he joined the ranks of Asgardian soldiers now lying dead in the courtyard.

She saw people she knew everywhere, in every face; yet, not one single person gave Morgan any sense of safety. Nor did she much care for their safety. In Morgan’s opinion, the two ideas were interchangeable.

Her panic growing steadily as she felt herself being dragged onto the rescue ship instead of fleeing into it, Morgan suddenly found herself more aware of the extreme disadvantages of her height hitherto using it as a distinct advantage. She was drowning. Thick waves of stiff fabric enveloped her legs, causing her to lose any sense of balance her adrenaline rush had left her. The layers of white fabric rest loosely against the clearly irritated skin of her neck. As the ever frantic assortment of those trying to escape the fog of death tossle her, the loosely worn wreaths of fabric around Morgan’s neck fall away, revealing a pale patch of skin, instantly recognizable to all around her as the Valknut.

Why would such a young child be marked as a fallen warrior?

For the very same reason that Asgard now lie buried under a great flood of death: Hela. And the white clock wrapped around the young girl’s form? A form of punishment by the same witch who deemed it fit to brand a child.

Not being able to understand why some people began shoving her in the direction that absolutely did not guarantee safety, Morgan felt the distinct lick of anger spiked by fear hasten to find its way into her brain. The need to get onto the rescue ship was nearly as prominent as the need to get her mother out of here alive as well. Morgan really did fail to see how the two things were any different.

“What are you doing? Everyone needs to get on that ship _now_ unless they are fighting.” A figure standing towering above Morgan by what must be a foot gestures haltingly towards the vessel, barely letting his feet stop moving. Unlike her mother, who fought like a lion with a home that had just been burned to the ground, this figure fought like a bird, flipping through the air with the added whipping of hair, knives darting out like talons from hands occupied with seemingly unnecessary weapon twirling and shimmers of illusion. This figure fights with the intent to kill and to trick, a deadly combination, allowing all unnecessary acrobatics to be fully beneficial. This figure is Loki.

Now distracted by the god dancing with death in front of them, Morgan was able to slip onto the carrier, hiding herself away in a dark corner before she moves the fabric of her cloak over the scar on her neck. Given just a moment out of immediate danger, Morgan’s brain takes a few seconds to calm down, or rather let its adrenaline drugged mindset to slip, for her heartbeat to lower, and to sudden tears to spring to her eyes. She found that she could no longer bear sitting placid in a corner. She didn’t know why, necessarily, she felt the urge to resume movement, yet she trusted herself in this area enough to move anyway. Wrestling through the crowd once again, she fights a path to the front lines within the carrier, just in time to watch a girl of seventeen speared through the stomach by a ragged column of what resembled black onyx. Several people screamed, Morgan not being one of them, her voice catching horribly in her throat, a petrified look of shock and indignation stagnant on her face.

Seemingly spurred by the gore, a figure burst forward, dropping a piece of fabric that hitherto shrouded his shoulders. This was a man of drama- a man who knew when his moment was. His moment is now. Blasting a stream of words that Morgan knew not, at the time, to be of unclean origin, he leaps from the rescue ship, sparks flying from two devices in his grasp, destroying the pillars of dark rock that tethered the life of Asgard to the people bent on killing it. They could escape.

A few people shouted a thanks to this mysterious figure while other rush to a button that closes the large bay door, preserving the lives of those in the carrier, leaving behind those who remained on the bifrost.

Morgan was trembling now. Everything was shaking, from her numb, cold fingertips to the waves of panic in her mind. She truly was a sight to see. Sheaths of white fabric kept her safely inside of a cocoon, the white color dusted with ash and dirt. Her hair, cut barely below shoulder length, lie frizzy against her head, sweat matting the back. A wide pair of brown eyes seem disproportionate to the rest of her face, beaming bright and with a strange, almost violet light, offset by dark lashes casting shadows against her youthfully round cheeks. Her lips were slightly parted, the picture of naive fear, yet there was a power in her stance that drew people to her, the exact opposite of what the scar on her neck had done earlier.

The rescue ship begins to move, its engine humming under the Asgardians feet. A symphony of noise floods the vast room in which the citizens stood. Cries of relief, screams of anguish, whispers of lies to children. Those who were not occupied with grieving and comforting loved ones or those who had no one left to comfort found themselves drawn towards the window stretching from the ceiling to the floor of one wall of the carrier.

Asgard grows increasingly smaller and smaller, the sense of danger and terror grows less and less imminent. Asgard has suffered a great loss. Can any golden coals be found underneath the wreckage of what once was?

Morgan feels water filling her lungs again. She cannot find her mother, and, for the first time in her life, she is truly alone. No one watching her. Buried underneath layers of harrowing worry and anxiety, a rebellious spirit lie dormant. The angry red fire ripping through Asgard woke it. 

Over the span of ten seconds the entire population of the craft had gone silent. A heavy weight like rain waiting to fall wrought people’s vocal cords too tight to allow noise. Morgan’s brain stops working. 

  
  
  


How could this happen? 

  
  
  


Where is her mother? 

  
  
  
  


Why hadn’t she seen her? 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


…. because she wasn’t on the ship. 

 

 

>  

**Author's Note:**

> There is a high possibility that this will go unfinished. Also I can't spell.


End file.
